... Wherein Rochilieu Has Blessed Little to Say For Himself ...
I had a really bad night last night, late. So late in fact you might call it today. I feel like some Gris-Gris Woman from Our Lady of Guadalupe Voodoo Church went across the street to that old priestess Marie Laveau's supposed crypt in St. Louis Cemetery #1 and drew an X, knocked three times, gave her some sangria or Goat's Blood or something and put a Hex on my Ass.
I really ought to get out of New Orleans. But that's the thing about it: The more this City fucks you up, the more you Need it.
Maybe I should sell everything I own and get a condemned little cottage on Press Street near the Bywater, the Most Potholed Road in America, and just SQUAT for the Rest of my Life. Hell, 27.3% of New Orleans Residents are squatters, some of them in pretty big old mansions! But then I'd have to climb the stairs and shit like that.
When I first moved here from elsewhere, I thought every woman would look like Heather Saladin, who I knew from elsewhere but she was FROM here, and when I got here I found out I was right. She's in a tie with some of the Quarter Girls for Most Beautiful Woman in America. But she wasn't walking down Decatur half-nude and jaded.
And I learned not to believe in the Myth of the Good-Hearted Whore. A blow job here costs $10. Suck fat tourists off for Peanuts all day and see where YOUR heart is. The ones with the good hearts are doing it for Free, not working for Raphael Fleetwhite.
But I wanted to find a beautiful one who was brilliant and who ALSO had a good heart. But NOOOOOO. Someone like, say, Janice Muszynski would fit that bill, and she's welcome to visit, lemme tell ya.
That's why I've decided to write about all this sleaze, to get it on Paper and find a Publisher before I get beat to it by some other asshole. Since this place is all about selling yourself, from the Politicians to Dauphine Street Butt-Pirates to Decatur Street Sluts to the 'Tutes and Strippers on Bourbon and the Debutante Wives on Josephine Street, I'll call it Town Full of Hoors and I'll mention names. Real ones. I won't be quoting Rilke, either.
I heard some really disgusting shit about Frankie Minot today. That he and his Eddie Patillo Gentlemen Faggot Friends were enjoying a Drunken Trust-Fund Breakfast at La Peniche on Dauphine Street in the Marigny and he was carrying on loudly about how he and his buddy Phil Pleasant had raped a local Middle-Eastern butt-hustler named Facil. That he NEVER pays for it. Fucking DISGUSTING the way he was describing it. When I write my book, I'll tell the Reader all about it. I'll start writing tomorrow. Right now my head just hurts too goddamn bad.
Back when I was living in San Francisco and shooting H, I was doing it with this cocksman named Michael Dean who used to come here when he was touring with this heavy metal band. The dude was as good on the bass as John Paul Jones and as good on vocals as Paul McCartney and he was a pretty good writer, too, and he once observed to me that Nawlins is such a Sleazy Place that people want to Fuck it. They can't help themselves from helping themselves help themselves.
And I was thinking of a different way to make a Living than teaching Art at a place where everybody hates me and they don't pay me jack SHIT. And around here, everything's a scheme, a hustle, a Plan, a Prop. Proposition. Preposition. Over, Under, Around, Across, Along. Along the Mississippi. Ac-CROSS the Mississippi. IN the Mississippi. In-SIDE the Mississippi.
I decided that if I could find the Mississippi River's Pussy I could work out a deal with Fleetwhite that after he marries his Drunken Tourists, instead of a goddamn Carriage Ride in the Old Square we'd say, Hey! That there's the Mississippi River. And we know where you can go to find its Pussy.
Then, for only $65, we'd take them to a little glass booth I'd have set up on the Bank that had a little hole in it with mud coming thru, and they could get off by watching each other eat out the Mississippi's Pussy. A Threesome! A great way to kick off a Lifetime Together. Black & White photographs $20 extra. $99 for a Hi-8 videotape for them to watch five years later when they couldn't get each other off anymore. And then it'd be time for a Second Honeymoon, see? Me, hell, I'm divorced. But what I would give to take my Ex-wife on a Second Honeymoon and watch her go down to the Banks of the Mississippi and Eat out its Pussy.
Hell, she's probably alREADY done as much to the Susquehanna. Or the St. John. Or the goddamn Nile, wherever the hell she is.
Anyway, I had two pretty good ideas going, cocaine hangover and ALL. I need to start back jogging. I wonder if Frankie Minot smokes Benson & Hedges like all the rest of the Queer Art Fags or if he smokes a pipe. A pipe, I'll bet. I wonder who'll get them when he dies.
I wonder what Kermit Broadmeyer's doing for Halloween.